Pray For Mercy The 61st Annual Hunger Games
by xXLaineTheWitchXx
Summary: "Raspberries and Cotton Fields, we are District 8." This story is written in a few different POV's, mostly Luna Bella's. &Yes, Kathii, if you read this, I use a LOT of names you'll be familliar with XD This is a REALLY long story, so it'll have a lot of chapters c: Enjoy everybody! :D
1. A Flicker of Doubt

**Disclaimer! (: Hi guys, Laine here with a new story ^_^ This one I am particularly proud of c: Still in the making but it's going really good so far! This is going to be a REALLY long story, so watch out! It'll have a TON of chapters, but hopefully it will be worth it. Thank you to Kate2623 for the PM you sent; it has motivated me to get this story on the road &out to the public! Thank you to all who read my stories &those who support my love of writing; I hope this doesn't disappoint!  
Sunny**

I open my eyes, inhaling the faint but fresh scent of fabric dyes and spools of thread that announce, "We are District 8." The light is dim but through the dusty air I can see the faint rays of sunshine, telling that it is about sunrise. My mind pieces together things for a quick moment before I am overcome with a hot, fast-paced fear. My breath stops and then quickens, my face flushing. Oh no. Not today. It can't be today.

"Marianne?" I call out worriedly as my vision makes out more details of the rectangular single room that makes up our house; a thick, beige blanket stained with various offenses; bare wooden walls; a table with stale food and old dishes sitting on it.

I hear footsteps coming from my left. Then I see her, her hair in a braid. She stands at the wooden doorway for a moment, pale and almost unseen in the shadows. But her light seafoam green eyes almost shine at me like a cat's. She goes back to the small room that the doorway leads into, then comes back with a bowl.

"Luna Bella."

She comes to me, placing at my side a small bowl of stale, quickly dying oats about two days old. I eat my small fill, forcing myself to swallow the bland, hard grains, then allow Marianne to munch on the rest. She places the bowl down on a small wooden nightstand that is uneven with knife-marks and "table-scars", then hugs me close to her.

I inhale her scent. She always smells of almonds and faintly of the woods after the rain. It comforts me. It was her arms, nine years ago, that I ran into when I had no one else to turn to. She always knew how to comfort me.

I let her stroke my hair, lapping her up her affection for a while until she tells me to wash up.

"Come up, Bells. We have to look nice for today." She says as she gets up. Her expression is stone cold, the type of look that always makes me fear for the worst.

"As you wish." I sigh, obeying her. I get up and wash in a large wooden-plank tub, running my fingers through my hair. When I finish, I towel-dry my hair. I sling it over my shoulders so it does not touch the back of my neck, turning to Marianne.

"Come eat." She says quietly, without emotion.

I frown. Truly I am not hungry, but on a day like today I need to please Marianne.

"As you wish." I say, helping myself to bland, stale food that is in questionable condition.

After a while I go outside of the house. I don't want to confront Marianne with the occasion so I occupy myself as much as possible. I go to the small stool in the yard and begin to knit socks. We're running out of socks, I remind myself as I take the dull, faded yarn and begin to work.

Marianne says I'm too young for a job at the factories. I don't care; we need more money as it is, but I obey her and practice my knitting so that I will be better than all the other kids when I turn 16 and am old enough for a job. Then again, at the factories they use machines, not hand-knitting, so my skills will be rendered useless. Oh well, at least we'll have more socks.

After a while, I see a rat stumble across the yard, a moldy piece of some sort of fruit between its paws. I look around, making sure no one is watching, and then kill it, bringing the carcass inside.

Hunting is illegal in District 8. We have very tough Peacemakers who will no doubt execute you on sight if they catch you poaching. But killing a rat is common in our part of town, so no one really thinks twice about it. I skin the animal and rid of its head, paws, and tail, then simmer some water and cleanse it. Better safe than sorry, Marianne always says.

"Luna, what are you doing?" She asks as she sees me washing the small carcass.

"Rat outside. We need meat." I say gruffly, getting to the point.

Marianne sighs, not understanding my need to kill small animals for food. But she does not object or make me throw the cubed meat away. "I swear, you'll turn cannibal if you're chosen." She sighs, but I know she's only joking.

I laugh and smirk at her. "Whatever puts food at the table, or… whatever they'll have this year at the arena."

Marianne keeps quiet for awhile, not even bothering to chuckle at my poor attempt at a joke. I can tell she's not excited about today. She still hasn't even confirmed that today's the day. I have to ask, though. I need to know. I find her, washing clothing, and I tap her shoulder. She's now onto knitting something, and at first I thinks she's ignoring me until she gives a small "Hmph" that tells me she knows I'm alive and there. Not waiting for her to finish and turn around so I can ask, I mutter to her back:

"It's Reaping Day, isn't it."


	2. Conversation with a Friend

It was more of a statement than it was a question, really. I was sure I already knew the answer. But I needed Marianne's confirmation to truly feel afraid. Now I just feel numb, cold, stone.

Marianne frowns, half frozen in place. Her body stays still but her fingers still twiddle with a piece of string she had been making into a glove. She sees my teary expression and rushes me into her arms, letting me weep into her faded maiden gown.

"Yes, little sister." She says, tucking a strand of my coffee-bean brown hair behind my ear. She knows that Reaping Day frighten me, so for a moment she sort of rocks my upper body in her arms. She sighs and looks away, her Seafoam eyes now clouded over.

I continue weeping, overwhelmed by fear of the unknown.

For a minute, Marianne allows me to cry. Then, suddenly, she gently pulls me off of her, making it so I'm looking her in the eyes.

"Do not shed tears." She warns, slightly less warmly. "We are low on clean water and the drought doesn't look like it will let up any time soon."

The drought. How I hated the drought. Here in District 8 the drought was good for the fabric; it allowed to colors to seep in quicker and prevented mold or static to accumulate on the surface of the yarn and cotton. But for the people, it was devastating. I was all-too-familiar with the vacant stares of the deceased, lying out in the open, on the ground or propped up against the wall. Their throats raw from hunger, their tongues shriveled like leather in the sun. The smell of their corpse as flies buzzed around them. That and the drought made it almost impossible for new crops to grow. So not only did we die from dehydration, we died from starvation as well. The drought bugged me. I almost blamed the Capitol for it but knew that was too outlandish and unthinkable. Even the Capitol wouldn't go as far as to kill us all off with a drought… right?

I shuddered at the haunting memories and looked up at her, taking in every detail of her breathtaking exterior. Seafoam green eyes, dark chestnut hair, pale skin dotted with flat, smooth circular moles. I am slightly comforted knowing she has just turned 19 a week ago and is therefore ineligible to be picked for the Hunger Games. But I know I'm not as fortunate as her.

I sigh, feeling shameful of my weakness. "As you wish."

She smiles at me, embracing me again and wrapping me in her warmth.

After awhile, I was ready to go. We still had a few hours left so I went down the road past the now-fixed fabric factories. I frown at the buildings, a dark hatred building deep inside of me. I can't exactly recall what it was directed at. I guess, in general, the Capitol for the bullshit they were making us do. The biggest issue I have, and I keep telling myself this, is that we're being punished for something our dead grandparents did. How fair did that sound to anybody except the president of Panem? This is one messed-up country, I thought to myself. I sighed and continued walking. I could only hope Marcus would be up to listen to my rants today, of all days. Marcus usually listened to my rants, and today wasn't truly that different from any other day. I continued walking, looking at all the grey around me.

I walked until I reached the spot I was hoping for. I was in front of a house that, even though was located on the richer end of town, still looked shabbier and more run-down than even mine. I knocked the theme to Fur Elise, then stepped back and waited.

"Hello?" Called a familiar voice through the door. "Who is it?"

"This is head Peacekeeper! You are to be executed for illegal hunting! Come out with your hands up!" I called in the least threatening growl ever heard.

I could hear laughing from the other side of the door. It lasted for a moment until the voice, still shaky with giggles, continued. "Okay, official, you got me. I am to be arrested and put down for my horrendous sins against the wonderful, Almighty Capitol."

The door opened and the sight of my friend Marcus makes me smile in relief. He's about sixteen now with dark ashy caramel brown hair. He has a tall build and is about 5'6. He smiles back at me and when he opens his arms I don't hesitate to rush into them and hug him.

"Hi Marcus!" I say as I nuzzle his chest, inhaling his scent and relaxing.

"Hey, Lay." He smiles, calling me by the nickname only he can address me as. "Happy Hunger Games. Wanna see what I got?"

I nod and he shows me three fresh apples. Their earthy smell brings warmth to my center. "Oh gosh!" I exclaim happily. "They look delicious!"

"Yeah, I got them for free. Just picked from '11. I think everyone's feeling kind of generous today. Can't blame them, really. I originally had four but gave one to a twelve-year-old who was nervous about her first Reaping." Marcus said with an electric smile as he scanned through the apples, looking over their condition once more.

Now, here's the thing. There's never been anything romantic between Marcus and I. But I swear, he's the only person whom I can actually be normal around. My sister knows the quiet, obeying side of me. The whole District probably knows the side of me who trades food and talks quietly about the Capitol behind closed doors and locked windows. People at school know the quiet part of me that never does anything but go off to be alone and do academic stuff while the rest of the school is at an over-done assembly that tries to show happiness through the weary, tired, hungry eyes of the staff. But Marcus knows the part of me that I didn't even know I had until I met him. The side that can freely rant about the Capitol, the side that accepts his hugs and affection, and the side that doesn't try to cover up the weariness that seems to consume her more and more with each day. Marcus is the one person I can truly say I trust.

"You think District 8 has a chance?" I ask.

"Nope." Marcus laughs. "Raspberries and cotton fields, we are District 8."

I smile at his inside jokes. I'm famous around these parts for the raspberries I find and sell. Marcus has ever since declared District 8 "the place of raspberries and cotton." There were other inside words we had invented, too, like dimes and blue jays. Marcus loved blue jays, as they were a sign of rebellion to him, so anything concerning me or peace in District 8 was referred to as a blue jay. Dimes, well, my grandfather had collected dimes before he passed away. It constantly reminded me that, things could change at the fall of a dime. The bird cage was a house or community, and the rabbit coop was District 8 itself. One of the sayings Marcus had invented was "You've been out of the rabbit-coop before", which referred to me venturing outside of the District through the fence. Another, "The blue jay has flown the coop, and he's not coming back.", referred to something Marcus has always wanted to do: start a rebellion in District 8.

I turned back to Marcus, snapping back to reality as I watched him take a look at his fruit. Re-examining the apples, Marcus looks at and tosses me the best one of his lot, and I catch it expertly with a knife I had in my pocket, stabbing it right through the center. I flash him a smile and decide to test his Capitol accent. Teasing him, I take a bite out of the top of the dark-red apple, its warm juices running down the knife blade as my bite pushes the apple down further into the blade. He rolls his eyes, acts simply horrified with my manners, and says mockingly in the Capitol accent, "Why, your manners are simply atrocious, my dear! You're never going to get sponsors that way!"

I can't help but laugh. "It's reaping day and I'm expected to be on my best behavior?"

Marcus smiles, laughing again. "Quite."

We sit on his porch steps and eat apple for a bit. I look out at the street and all I see is gray and gray. Gray stone buildings, gray gravel road, even the trees are gray. But there is a tremendous view of the mountains that apparently used to be called the Appalachians. They stand out here in this world of gray. I can see a lot of things in the thin gray forest beyond the gravel road; the outline of a mockingjay as it skirts through the trees, mushrooms that are most likely poisonous, another rat that has made off with what appears to be a speckled bird egg. The woods are full of life, a moving centerpiece in this world of dull gray boringness. I somewhat like the woods, though they feel somewhat sinister to me in a way I can't explain and in a way I don't exactly like. That and the woods are exceedingly thin.

I've been in the thin forest before. There's no concealment and you feel exposed wherever you go. Even up in the trees offers little means of being covered. The leaves are thin and act as if it's fall all year round, constantly falling and thinning even further. But it teems with life, if you know how to look for it. Look under the leaves for mushrooms, look under rotting logs for insects or mice. Growing up with Marcus first teaching me how to hunt in these very woods, I have no doubt looking for foods in the Hunger Games will be a cinch.

Marcus lets me save half an apple for my sister and I give him some stale oats. He says they taste like "used cat litter" and I can't help but agree.

"Who do you think it's gonna be this year?" Marcus suddenly asks me.

I frown, almost immediately knowing what he means. I wish I can answer but there's no way to tell who's going to be the two unlucky tributes this year for District 8. "I don't know. Did you put your name in for tesserae?"

Marcus nods. "Yup."

"So what're you at?" I asked with a tone of worry in my voice. "Thirty entries?" I don't know what I'd do if Marcus got picked. And all of that tesserae isn't exactly worth the extra danger. A meager month's supply of grain doesn't exactly seem worth a young child's life. Especially not Marcus' life. If I were the same gender, I would no-doubt volunteer tribute for Marcus if he got chosen, though I'm sure he'd do the same and the older the tribute is the better chance they have in being picked as tribute.

Marcus looks down and nods again. "Yeah, thirty."

I frown, shaking my head in disapproval. "A month's supply of stale grain isn't worth going into the Hunger Games, in my opinion. I'd sooner starve than get my head bashed in by a Career."

Marcus turns stone hard, his expression glazing over in both hurt and depression. He sighs, looking away from me and keeping his gaze at an ant that is making its way across the gravel back to its nest. "Yes, but would you really rather starve to death or be killed by someone else? I'd take the Hunger Games over starving in the streets. At least you can usually trust they'll kill you quickly."

I realize I shouldn't have said that. Marcus' little sister died of starvation just a few weeks ago. Marcus and I, we had been walking down the street talking, laughing, when he just stopped. Stopped and stared, mouth half open in disbelief. And when I turned I saw her there, lying in the streets, head half turned in a 45 degree angle from the ground, looking up at the sky with the blank expression I've seen so many times. Skinny as a stick, she was. And now she was gone, too.

She was basically all he had. Their mother wasn't much help, constantly going into her own little world and drowning both of her children out. Marcus' little sister did an amazing providing for both of the kids, which is more than anyone could say for their mother. Marcus adored his little sis, and she adored him back. I had no right to say what I had about her. He loved her.

She meant so much to him. And he wasn't even there to say goodbye to her.

"Marcus, I'm sorry…" I put my hand on his shoulder, the terrible feeling of guilt and shame taking over what had once been hunger. "I spoke without thinking. Please forgive me…" I bite my lip. I would understand if Marcus didn't forgive me, though I knew guiltily that he always did.

Marcus just shook his head, bitterly looking away. "It's fine, Bells. Angel wouldn't have wanted to face the pain that is Reaping Day, anyways. She would have vomited under sheer nervousness. I remember doing that when it was my first Reaping Day. Angela never wanted to go into the Hunger Games, or see anyone she loved go in there, too. So I guess that, in a way, she'd be happy, knowing that…" He trailed off, and I left the subject alone.

Angela was her name. She would have been twelve this year and would be eligible to go into the Hunger Games. And she would probably sign up for tesserae as well, as she always wanted to help provide for both Marcus and their mother. But I knew as well as Marcus did that he wouldn't have let her sign up for tesserae. He would've done that for her.

"I…" I begin to say something but I stop myself. I let go of the subject.

There's an awkward silence for awhile as he eats his apple in a deadly quietness.

"Don't think I'll go in, do you?" He suddenly asks.

I turn to him, my eyebrows raised questioningly. "You? Nah. Why would they choose you? You only have a few tesserae tickets in there compared to the older kids. Besides, you'd easy own that place good. With your skills and the things you didn't teach me while hunting, you'd easy make it to the final three."

Marcus smiles and shakes his head. "Yeah. Right. A fabric boy winning the Hunger Games. What a laugh!"

I roll my eyes, punching him jokingly. "Yeah, and the coal miners stand a better chance? Or the fishermen?"

Marcus can't help but laugh now, rubbing at the thin layer of dust that has accumulated on his arm. He flips his head to the left, which moves his ashy bangs out of his eyes. "Yes. The coal miners can use shovels or pick-axes. And the fishermen have tridents they can sling over their shoulders faster than you can throw a 'skit."

A 'skit. That's our nickname for a special type of weapon Marcus and I invented years ago. It is no doubt the best weapon I have ever used, and I have mastered it over the years. 'Skits are short for Ariskitatt. I named them especially for the sound they make. 'Skits sound exactly like the name sounds, with the 'tat' suffix being the noise it makes when it impacts your skin. Its name originated from a remix of the word Aristocrat, because when I first invented it I was in love with the word, for some reason.

But underneath the musical name it has, the 'skit is actually quite deadly. It can cut right down to the bone, even in fleshy areas. It was created on accident when Marcus and I were sharpening a scythe blade and we sharpened it just a bit too much.

Of course, the scythe was small and hand-held. Marcus' mother gave them to us so we could practice cutting clean threads to use for sewing. She said it would 'help us gain an edge when we were old enough to get a job'. Thinking back, why Marcus' mother gave us sharp objects to play with baffles me to this day. But back then, we just wanted to sharpen the object so that it could actually cut through threads, as the original design of the 'skit was exceedingly dull and left the end of the fabrics uneven and frayed when we tried to slice cleanly through them. Marcus had said, taking the words right out of my mouth, "These things are too dull! C'mon, Luna, I'll show you where we keep the sharpener!" He showed me where the metal contraption is, and the moment I sliced the soon-to-be 'skit through the small opening of the sharpener, I fell in love with sharpening metallic objects.

We became obsessed with sharpening the 'skits, and soon enough it became clear that we had sharpened the scythe too far. It barely touched even the thickest thread before it sliced through it neatly.

"We need to find some better use for it." I had told him, wielding the awesome power that is a 'skit.

And that we did. As we made more of them, we discussed what they would be used for, and soon it was clear that their purpose would be for hunting. We used plenty of 'skits to cut through the electric fence guarding District 8. Just slang them like ninja stars. And they sliced clean through, too. We soon killed through plenty of animals and brought only their meat home, being careful to leave any evidence of pelts in the woods. That way, if any officials asked us what we were carrying we could tell them we had bought some meat at the market and they would have no troubles believing us.

"Yes but if their tridents ran head-on into a 'skit, which would prevail?" I said, suddenly. I knew which one it was. And Marcus did too. A 'skit would definitely intercept the flight travel of a trident, no matter what angle it was coming from.

"A 'skit, no doubt." Marcus smiled knowingly. I nodded, showing my approval.

"Damn right a 'skit would win." We both agreed.

For a moment, silence. But then I thought of something could complicate getting 'skits. Hand-held scythes weren't exactly common in the Hunger Games, as they were very deadly weapons. Why the Capitol just about banned a deadly object when they loved nothing more than a good bloody fight baffled me out of words, but I soon decided that a 'skit to the neck would be a quick death and the Capitol's idea of a good fight was a fight-to-the-death blood-all-over-the-ground bludgeoning battle.

"Do you think they'd give us hand-held scythes in this year's Hunger Games?" I asked, more to myself than to Marcus.

"Why, does the idea of using 'skit make you wanna join?" Marcus asked in joke mockery, suddenly tickling my sides.

I burst into laughter. "Stop! Stop it! Marcus!"

Marcus stopped when I hit his shoulder pathetically, chuckling as I sat to catch my breath. I put my hand behind my head and exhaled deeply. "You know I hate when you do that…"

"Aww, I'm sorry princess." He kissed my cheek.

I could feel myself blush at his kiss. I rub my cheek gingerly, a weird feeling building up in my chest. "You always are." I reply as he takes me in his arms, resting my head on his chest and smiling. He tussles with my hair for awhile before he looks up. "Oh snap, it's almost noon, Bells!"

I look up at him, disappointed. To be honest I had actually liked lying with my head on his chest while he twirled strands of my hair. But I understood why he had to go. "You gotta take care of your mum?"

He nods at me. "Ever since Angel she's been hysterical. What's a boy to do?" He sighed. And I understood. Being a sixteen-year-old having to take care of a mother who's not there fifty percent of the time gets stressful, especially for one like Marcus, who always puts others before himself. He'd sooner starve than let his mum starve.

"You wanna eat at our house after the Reaping? You could invite your mum if you wanted to." I suggest randomly.

Marcus bends down and kisses my forehead, wiping a strand of hair away from my face. "Nah. I can't impose. You've already eaten lunch with me today and that's enough to make me feel better about this afternoon. Besides, mom's not really feeling doing anything right now. It's been breakfast in bed for a week now."

I frown. "Marcus, you have to enforce some laws. Let her know enough is enough and she's done enough sulking. When was the last time you bathed? Have you even had a minute to yourself?"

Marcus smiles. "Thought you didn't notice the layer of grime." But through the joking I can sense the exhaustion building up in his muscles and come to the conclusion that he's been too busy working around the house to bathe. I looked into his eyes and saw the pure tiredness of an over-worked boy, but I couldn't bring myself to make a comment about it, no matter what my intentions were, so I decided I would laugh the seriousness off. Though deep down I was saddened to see my over-worked friend, tired and weak, taking care of a woman who was more-than-capable of providing for herself.

I laughed through the concern. "Are you kidding? With the neat-freak my sister is? It's like second nature to me now."

Marcus places his arms around my neck gently once more, hugging me to him. "See you at the Reaping, Bells. You be careful, alright? And may the odds—"

"—Be ever in your favor!" I finish for him.

"Alright. You better go. Don't want my mum to yell at you for being here while I should be cleaning or hunting or some shit." Marcus says, letting me up. I let go the fact he mocked me by saying 'mum' and turn to him sweetly.

I smile at him, ruffling his hair with my hands. He hates when I do that but he accepts it anyways. "Okay. Bye, Marcus. See you later."

He waves to me as I leave, then goes inside. I hear shouting from his mother a moment later and know she's only stumbled out of her pit of despair to scold him for some exaggerated purpose. Though at that moment I wouldn't have liked to do anything but barge in and set her straight, I knew it wasn't my place to intercept. It was Reaping Day. I couldn't make things worse for Marcus. I sigh sadly, shaking my head and turning back to his house for a slight second before I head off down the road.


End file.
